


take me out into the night

by damnromulans (beastofaburden)



Category: Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-05-08
Updated: 2013-05-08
Packaged: 2017-12-10 18:18:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,710
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/788705
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beastofaburden/pseuds/damnromulans
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>On a biobed deep in the black, Dr. Leonard H. McCoy learns one thing for certain: you never do get what you want.</p>
            </blockquote>





	take me out into the night

**Author's Note:**

> Based upon the TOS episode "For The World Is Hollow And I Have Touched The Sky." A submission for [The Original Reboot](http://theoriginalreboot.tumblr.com/).

There is one night, at the Academy. One of their terrible anniversaries, when they throw open the windows to hear the waves roll in from the Bay, just so the silence doesn’t crush them. That’s when Jim rolls over on the floor, with eyes drunken-wide but fierce in their conviction, in the way that Jim Kirk is always fierce, and says 

“That’s how I’m going to go.”

McCoy’s not an idiot, he’s not even a bad drunk, but his thoughts are sloshing together and there’s bourbon on his breath so he says back “Go where?”

“Just _go_ , Bones. In the black. In the chair. Like him.”

It’s not like it’s surprising that this is weighing on Jim’s thoughts. Not tonight. But to hear it so plainly stated, so fucking _certain_ , lays a weight on McCoy’s mind that reverberates and aches. 

“Is that really what you want?”

Jim looks back to the ceiling, so that he’s nothing more than a silhouette, and all McCoy can do is watch the rise and fall of his chest, the way his lips part around words.

“I want it to mean something. Even if it’s only at the end.”

There’s any number of things that he could say to that - _damn Command idiots always searching for their blaze of glory_ or _not on my watch, kid_ or _it_ already _means something_ \- but he knows Jim’s not with him now, not really, and he’d be wasting his breath. So he waits, thinks Jim’s fallen asleep on him even, until he murmurs again, just barely loud enough to hear.

“How do you want to go?”

Jim asks him questions like this sometimes, more revealing of himself than any answer McCoy could conjure up, questions which stay with him through lectures and clinic shifts and never actually get a proper answer. But this question cuts right through his muddled thoughts, and he only finds one thing to say.

“I don’t.”

-

Years later, on a biobed deep in the black, Dr. Leonard H. McCoy learns one thing for certain:

You never do get what you want.

-

This is how it's going to go:

Mild dizzy spells. Slight difficulty breathing when lying down. Loss of appetite. Migraines. Fatigue. Vomiting. Loss of mobility in extremities. Impotence. Loss of co-ordination. Aphasia. Lung failure. Liver failure. Blood clotting. High probability of aneurysm or stroke. Heart failure. 

He brings up the research with a strange sense of detachment. There’s no panic, no fear, because the readout on his office terminal looks no different to any other, and he has no doubt about the results of the physical – he conducted the thing, after all. It just _is_ that he has no more than a year to live, just _is_ that any forseeable cure is at least three years in the pipeline, just _is_ that it will begin to exhibit symptoms at any time, that it probably already has been and he just didn’t see.

Before _he_ starts to exhibit symptoms. 

He pinches the bridge of his nose. He waits, almost, for the shock to sink in, for the shaking and the sweating and the crying. He’s seen the way people act when they get news like this, a death sentence that colours everything grey and red, he’s fought off people who’ve lashed out, tried to offer comfort and understanding to the fearful. Instead, there’s only a strange sense of clarity – a number, actually. 668. A section of the Starfleet Medical Manual: 

_A starship’s Chief Medical Officer must themselves be in adequate health relative to that of their commission. In the event of illness or injury, the CMO must accept a new posting or honorable discharge as the situation requires._

He can hear movement beyond the office door – they’re collating the last of the evals, getting them ready for presentation and transfer to Command. He’s wasted enough time looking into this damn thing, and he knows there’s not much time before Chapel and M’Benga come hunting for his.

He turns back to the terminal and knows exactly what he has to do.

“Computer, modify physical evaluation of McCoy, Leonard H. Delete previous results. No anomalies detected. Officer fit for duty. Submit for final report.”

“Override required for-”

“CMO authorization code 6-Charlie-Charlie-1-7-0-1.”

“Access granted. Medical report altered.” 

Not a minute later the door to his office slides open, Chapel strolling in with PADD in hand.

It’s only then that his stomach clenches, but it’s still not the fear of the illness. No, with Christine in front of him, earnest and focused, Starfleet badge glimmering in the light cast by the terminal screen, it’s the thought of what he’s just done that gets him. He thinks of the lie he’ll have to craft, the painful delay of the worst he’s just created for himself. But he thinks of the alternative – backwater starbases, colonial postings, generic white hospital rooms on generic planets with generic pitying faces, places to just curl up and die like a fucking dog.

No.

Not today.

“Your file came through,” she says, barely even looking up from her work. “I take it you’re done, Doctor?”

In spite of himself, he feels his mouth twist into something that could be a smile.

“I think I might be, Christine.”

-

He gets his first headache exactly one week later, writes it off as stress. It’s hardly the first time that Jim’s shenanigans on the edge of the Neutral Zone have driven him to a hypo.

It’s when he’s wretching in his quarters later that night, heart fluttering, head pounding, and lungs struggling for breath, that he begins to get a sense of exactly what he’s in for.

It’s going to be slow and painful and pathetic and there’s not a damn thing he can do.

-

McCoy's always been a man for details.

He's a doctor - he doesn't have much choice in he matter. Not when the slightest move can sever an artery, when the most minuscule things keep hearts beating and eyes open.

Still, it's never been like this before. Everything has too much significance. It's any other day of the week but he can't stop _watching _: heads bent together in discussion; laugher ringing over the stairwell; the beeping of comms; music playing in someone’s room. He’s tucked away in one of the corners of the officer's rec, clutching a PADD with white knuckles, and looking anywhere but the words. He's had his hand in making sure every person in the room can do this, talk and laugh and learn from each other, knows that they all keep each other afloat as much as warp drives and life support systems do.__

__He continues to be efficient on the job. He would never have stayed if he didn’t think he could carry on to the best of his ability. But whilst it’s impossible to imagine leaving just yet, it’s almost just as hard to stay. As the weeks drag on after the diagnosis, the movement and noise and _life_ all around begins to separate and disjoint him, because all he can do is wait, hope that he can cling to normalcy and function as best he can. Hopes that whilst he’s left to watch life go on, no one’s looking back._ _

__Then again, they say that you're never truly alone on a starship._ _

__-_ _

__“You look like shit.”_ _

__There’s only one person on board that feels perfectly safe settling themselves in the seat next to McCoy, especially when he’s surrounded by PADDs and his dinner in the mess._ _

__“You always know just what to say, Jim.”_ _

__“Hey, man, you’re the one always talking up the Kirk charm. What’re you reading?”_ _

__McCoy doesn’t look up, but can feel Jim lean in, peering over his shoulder reading along with him. Every other seat at the table is free, but Jim leaves barely a hair’s breadth between them instead, crowds him with an annoying and irreplaceable ease that McCoy has long since learned to cope with._ _

__“Journals. Medical reports from across the Federation. You’d find it thrilling, I’m sure.”_ _

__“And you have to read all of them?” Jim’s still scanning the text, has probably finished the page before McCoy by now. “Don’t they have, like, CMO’s Digest?”_ _

__Well, if you’ve got a better idea on how to find a cure for a goddamn alien terminal illness then I’d love to hear it, kid._ _

__He tamps down the voice in his head and makes a non-committal noise at Jim, hopes beyond reason that he’ll take a hint and go bother someone else. Instead, he just pulls back far enough that his arm still brushes McCoy’s with every movement._ _

__“So, Cardassian blood surveys from twenty years ago are more important to you than sleep and food.”_ _

__“Jim, I know this’ll probably seem strange to you, but some of us like to display a little competence in our jobs. So yeah, they are.”_ _

__“Is this why you haven’t been up on the bridge lately? Like, at all?”_ _

__“Christ, don’t talk with your mouth full. Were you born in a barn?” He turns to look at him, now, the question catching him off-guard exactly as Jim probably meant it to. He studies Jim’s face, and McCoy didn’t even know it was possible to chew petulantly, but there it is. His swallow is firm._ _

__“You didn’t answer my question.” It prods at McCoy, because between never knowing when to leave well enough alone and somehow deciding that he needs to know about every fucking aspect of McCoy’s life, Jim has learned exactly how to dig under his skin and turn up any answer he seeks._ _

__It’s been hard, just as McCoy knew it would be, to keep this from him. Distancing himself has made it somewhat easier, somewhat, but he knew it was only a matter of time before Jim called him on it. Sometimes he thinks about just going ahead and getting it the hell over with. But whilst Jim is Jim, Jim is also Captain Kirk. He doesn’t want to place that kind of conflict in his hands, knows that he can’t stop what’s going to happen to him, but he can sure as hell try to contain the wreckage it causes._ _

__McCoy’s stared down the barrel of disease before, challenged it, and lost. He will not force Jim to do the same. Not whilst he has the choice._ _

__His sigh is bone-deep. “I’m fine, kid. Tired. You ever tried wrangling a thousand adrenaline-obsessed idiots? No one on this damn boat knows how to sit still. Can’t imagine where they get that idea from.”_ _

__Jim takes a few more considered bites. There’s something guarded about him. Not uncertain, because even if he was the kid’s got enough bluster to power through any situation. It unsettles McCoy, even as Jim keeps his tone casual._ _

__“Well, I’ll be expecting you up there again. Your patch of floor behind my chair is feeling neglected. So is Spock, for that matter.”_ _

__McCoy scoffs at that. “You kidding me? The bastard probably developed a facial expression when he realized I had more important things to do than watch the view screen all day.”_ _

__“Hey, that is a totally valid pastime! And seriously, Bones, Spock _loves_ you,” he waggles his eyebrows salaciously, bumps McCoy’s shoulder with his own. “Sometimes he’ll say something, and I swear, it’s like he’s just waiting for someone to contradict him. I feel bad for him, man.” _ _

__“You’re full of shit.”_ _

__“Maybe. Probably. Doesn’t mean I’m not right. Anyway, if you’re busy, I’ll leave you to it.” He moves to stand, and before even knows what he’s doing, McCoy’s got a hand clasped over Jim’s shoulder, keeping him firmly in the seat._ _

__“Where the hell do you think you’re going, kid? You’ve still got a plate full of veg there.”_ _

__“I don’t want it.”_ _

__“Do I look like I give a damn? Just ‘cause you don’t have to sit for another physical eval for another year doesn’t mean you get to fuck up all my hard work.”_ _

__Jim shrugs lightly, casts a sidelong, calculating look at McCoy as he lazily spears a piece of broccoli. McCoy suddenly feels like he’s been tested – on what, he’s not exactly sure, but there’s not much he can do about it now._ _

__He shakes his head, deactivates the nearest PADD._ _

__“Besides, you’ve already interrupted me, you might as well make it worth my time. Catch me up on everything – don’t want Spock to have a head start next time I’m up there, you know.”_ _

__It’s only then that Jim smiles, familiar, comforting, any hint of pretense slipping away. It warms McCoy from the inside out, loosens the knots of worry that wrap themselves around his feelings. In that smile he can remember, even if only for a while, that he’s a damn good doctor on a damn good ship, that he still has time and strength and purpose._ _

__It – this - is more than he’d ever hoped to have. Even now. Especially now._ _

__-_ _

__It’s during that very next shift on the bridge that they come across a certain asteroid-that-isn’t-an-asteroid, headed on a crash course with a colony the size of Earth. It’s during that shift that McCoy volunteers, for the first time, to join an away team._ _

__It’s also during that shift that everything goes to shit._ _

__-_ _

__“Bones…? Bones! Spock, I think he’s coming to.”_ _

__His skin feels like it doesn’t fit right and his head is fucking _pounding_ and his mouth can’t take shape. There’s helpless little grunts coming from somewhere. He has a terrible feeling it’s him._ _

__“Bones, say something.” He tries, he tries like it could save his damn life he said one word right now, but nothing comes. Jim knows that he’s been heard, though, must see how his eyes widen. McCoy becomes aware of steadying hands on his shoulder and chest. It anchors him, gives points of reference as he gets used to being awake._ _

__“Speechless, huh? That’s a first.” Jim’s voice is raw, from shouting or injury or both, probably, knowing him. That, along with the genuine, small smile he wears is enough to make McCoy worry. “Don’t worry. I’ll work it out. You just gotta stay awake for me, okay?”_ _

__McCoy tries for “I’m not fucking concussed, Jim, let me sleep,” but still no words come and it occurs to him that he might just be – he has no recollection of anything beyond the transporter room, when they were about to beam over._ _

__That’s when he hears the whir – the tricorder. His medical goddamn tricorder, currently in the hands of the First Officer, scanning his head just beyond McCoy’s peripheral vision._ _

__He needs to get that damn thing away from Spock. The readout will tell him everything, needs to get up and put on a brave face and walk out of here alongside, but he still can’t _move_ and there’s black creeping in on the sides of his vision. Everything starts to blur, press heavily on his chest. There’s the faint metallic smell of blood – he quickly realizes it’s it own, flowing from his nose. He can barely hear Jim anymore even though he’s right above McCoy, calling his name, cupping his jaw in his hands. _ _

__The last thing he sees before he goes under are two bright flashes of blue, wide with fear._ _

__-_ _

__Spock is standing at the end of the biobed when McCoy wakes up. He immediately wishes he could go back to sleep._ _

__“What happened?” he asks, because they’re back on the Enterprise and sickbay isn’t full, so something must’ve gone right. Spock is cool and measured in his response – when he is ever fucking _not_._ _

__“The Captain secured the redirection of the Yonada successfully, Doctor. The Fabrini were, understandably, most grateful.”_ _

__“I’ll bet. Where’s Jim now?”_ _

__“Overseeing the transfer of information archives discovered aboard the Yonada to the Enterprise.”_ _

__He flexes his fingers, rolls his shoulders. He feels dulled – painkillers, he knows, and probably a good measure of fatigue too. Vague images of the away mission start to filter through his mind’s eye, though, and he arches an eyebrow in curiousity._ _

__“Wait, I thought we were being held prisoner? How the hell did you get me back on board?”_ _

__“The High Priestess was most accommodating when it became clear your safety was threatened.”_ _

__That’s when McCoy clues in, because Vulcan or no, Spock wouldn’t just let something like that go without getting in a good shot at his favourite human dartboard. He sits up, checks that their corner of the bay is quiet, and glares with every iota of feeling he has._ _

__“Out with it, Spock.”_ _

__Spock clasps his hands behind his back, seems to consider his words carefully._ _

__“It is my understanding, Doctor, that red blood cells occupy forty-five percent of the proportion of human blood make-up. Your current red blood cell proportion is noticeably higher than that. Scans indicate it will only continue to rise.”_ _

__“Yes.” He’s angry and he sounds it. It’s irrational and hypocritical, he knows, but he’d fucking get up and deck Spock if he could because he’s talking about McCoy’s body falling to pieces and he’s still so _fucking calm_. _ _

__“You were previously aware of your weakened state.”_ _

__“Goddamn it, Spock, of course I was!” It’s not a shout, because the sickbay isn’t totally empty, but it’s enough to draw the slightest raise of an eyebrow from Spock. “What did Jim say, hm? What did they all say? Did you announce it on the bridge? Shipwide? I bet even you must’ve had a fucking ball telling them all that I’m-”_ _

__“The Captain and the crew remain uninformed.” Spock draws a tricorder from its pouch – McCoy’s tricorder, the one he took – and sets it on the bedside table. McCoy tightens his jaw but says nothing._ _

__He regards McCoy meaningfully, seems taller now that he’s right beside him._ _

__“I trust that you will rectify their ignorance, Doctor.”_ _

__Goddamn it, but McCoy hates when he’s right._ _

__-_ _

__He remembers three things from the meeting._ _

__The first was the noise of the ship. It’s usually just a white noise drowned out by the crew, really only noticeable down in the bowels of engineering. The room went so damn quiet after his announcement that it was suddenly all he could hear – something rhythmic about it, almost. It kept him talking, at least, if only to cover that up._ _

__Second were the faces. All trying so hard for stoicism, professionalism, whatever the fuck else they’re meant to embody as the bridge crew of the Fleet’s flagship, but one by one, they fell. Chekov, then Scotty, then all the rest – pity and apology from every one of them, everything he’d wanted to avoid. He knew then, still knows, that he’s a selfish prick for not appreciating it – these people are nothing less than his goddamn family, he wouldn’t be fucking okay if any of them came out and said _so basically I’m dying_. _ _

__And then, of course, the third is Jim. Or, more accurately, the Captain. Because the stony-eyed man at the end of the conference table sure as hell wasn’t Jim Kirk. He barely said a damn thing throughout all of McCoy’s rant, and offered up some half-assed Starfleet-issue condolence (the kind McCoy knows he deletes off the letters home to mourning families before he writes his own) at the end of the gathering._ _

__Captain Kirk strides from the ready room with barely a second glance, and McCoy _hurts_._ _

__-_ _

__What hurts more, though, is a fist to the fucking face._ _

__-_ _

__“Jesus Christ, what the fuck!”_ _

__Jim grabs him by the collar of his shirt, pushes him backwards into his quarters. “Xenopolycythemia,” he growls, separating every syllable of the word, like he needs to cage them separately to keep them from getting out. “You’ve got some fucking _nerve_.”_ _

__McCoy shoves him away once they’re inside. He touches lightly at his cheek – it’s going to bruise, fuck, he needs a regen – but it twinges all the more when he twists his face into a scowl, bites out his reply._ _

__“Well gee, Jim, I’ll make a note to avoid terminal illness next time around!”_ _

__“You’ve known since the evals and you didn’t tell me?” Jim’s eyes are wide, his jaw tight. He’s all but vibrating with rage and it makes the room feel small. “Bones, you could’ve died on the Yonada; Spock told me, if that shock had been any stronger-”_ _

__“Would’ve just sped up the job,” McCoy growls._ _

__“Shut _up_.” The word cracks, just slightly, and the layer of betrayal beneath Jim’s frenzy suddenly becomes painfully clear. McCoy feels it as keenly as he felt the punch, wants to flinch away from it. _ _

__He forces himself to relax, stands at a loose attention. If he can’t appeal to Jim as a friend, he can prevail upon him as an officer. “Captain, I’m-”_ _

__“Seriously? You’re going to try that shit on me?”_ _

__But McCoy forces through it. “I’m sorry if you feel like I endangered yourself or the crew on the away mission. If I’d had any idea…”_ _

__“You wouldn’t have gone? Would’ve kept hiding down in sickbay? Just save this conversation for a rainy day?” It’s accusatory, pierces somewhere beneath his ribs. McCoy grits his teeth._ _

__“I was going to tell you as soon as I had to. Not much point before that.”_ _

__Jim shakes his head. The laugh that falls out alongside his words is dry and unforgiving._ _

__“That’s not your decision. You know the procedure.”_ _

__“Oh, now who’s trying to pull protocol shit?”_ _

__“I would’ve told _you_ if it’d been me.”_ _

__“If it was you, Jim, I would’ve known before you anyway.”_ _

__“You just don’t _get_ it.” McCoy can see Jim clenching and unclenching his fists at his sides. He knows that there’s any number of things that Jim could say right now that would make him crumble – he’s fucked it up on so many levels, dying seems like the very least of his troubles right now._ _

__Jim closes his eyes in a slow blink, and when he opens them again he’s recovered some clarity. He tilts his chin towards McCoy’s cheek. “You should probably get that looked at. The CMO on this boat’s a real bastard, but he’ll fix it up for you anyway.”_ _

__“Jim…”_ _

__But he’s already striding out the door._ _


End file.
